The dressmaker, whose name was Monia Reiff, slept late after her
evening out. Harmony, collapsing with hunger and faintness,
waited as long as she could. Then she put on her things
desperately and ventured out. Surely at this hour Peter would not
be searching, and even if he were he would never think of the
sixteenth district. He would make inquiries, of course--the
Pension Schwarz, Boyers', the master's.
The breakfast brought back her strength and the morning air gave
her confidence. The district, too, was less formidable than the
neighborhood of the Karntnerstrasse and the Graben. The shops
were smaller. The windows exhibited cheaper goods. There was a
sort of family atmosphere about many of them; the head of the
establishment in the doorway, the wife at the cashier's desk,
daughters, cousins, nieces behind the wooden counters. The
shopkeepers were approachable, instead of familiar. Harmony met
no rebuffs, was respectfully greeted and cheerfully listened to.
In many cases the application ended in a general consultation,
shopkeeper, wife, daughters, nieces, slim clerks with tiny
mustaches. She got addresses, followed them up, more
consultations, more addresses, but no work. The reason dawned on
her after a day of tramping, during which she kept carefully away
from that part of the city where Peter might be searching for
her.
The fact was, of course, that her knowledge of English was her
sole asset as a clerk.
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